


in the winter, snow

by Honeymull



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2009 imported work, M/M, Preseries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: That winter, the snow comes down in eggshell flurries, sharp and white.





	in the winter, snow

That winter, the snow comes down in eggshell flurries, sharp and white. It lashes around the Impala, blinding the windshield and thickening the windows to an impenetrable fog. They pull over at the next motel, far too cold to spend the night in the car; welcoming though she may be, the battery would die too quickly in the cold. 

John hustles them inside, third door down. He doesn't have to tell Dean to draw Sammy close. 

They emerge the next day to an eerie quiet, large drifts stretching on lazy bellies against the motel door, the scant trees around the parking lot, the Impala's hood and trunk. It's too early for talking, so Sam just rubs at his face, slumps against the easy leather on the back seat and presses his cheek to the chilly window. Icicles crawl along the motel eaves, several rows of delicate spires, and they glint in the peaking dawn like glass. 

His lashes slip down low as the Impala rolls out of the parking lot, and soon, his breathing goes deep and slow once again.

 

*

 

Spring slinks in around the end of March, tardy rain glossing the blacktop and puddling in potholes. It's thunder-storming the night John calls from three counties away, sends Dean on his first solo hunt. Sam stays up alone in their tiny apartment, curled up small in the middle of Dean's bed, wide-eyed, waiting, and breathing in his scent. 

There's not a trace of tears when Dean stumbles triumphant through the door, soaked and grinning and only a little bit bloody. Sammy tries to smile, too.

An hour later, Dean's gone through two and a half bottles of beer, feels mellow and tipsy, and the rain's settled to a simple, steady pulse against the window. Dean lets a hand rest loosely on Sam's head, watches his little brother sleep against his knee, traces the angles of his young face with his eyes, maps them carefully and warmly in his mind.

He starts to move his hand down Sam's neck, thumb brushing along his jaw, over his chin, watches as Sam's lips part for him naturally - and startles when thunder crashes again right outside the window. He draws his hand back, wide-eyed, heart thumping hard in his chest, and swings his legs off the bed. He tries to ignore the soft whimper from Sam as his head slips off his knee, onto the mattress. 

Dean swallows hard, slips out the door to swallow mouthfuls of rainwater, tilts his head back in the downpour and lets it chill his flushing skin.

 

*

 

In the summer, something burns. 

Full prairies catch light, a heliolatrous sacrifice to the scorching heat, and at first, Sam refuses to look out the window at the shriveled black husks that now stretch for miles.

Dean catches him standing at the edge of the prairie three days after the fires whip through. There's still smoke, tiny wisps of it ghosting along at ground-level, and Sam has his hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, head tilted as he watches them weave through the charred expanse. 

Dean kicks at his shin in greeting, and Sam shoots him a look, half exasperated and half fond. Something spiraled low in his gut uncurls, and he frowns, focuses on Sam's young face like it has all his answers. Sam twitches, and Dean knows he can feel his gaze; he doesn't look away.

It's something in the air, Dean will think on afterwards, that smell of burning that rides in on the breezes, sticking in the air and in his dreams when he leaves the window open here at night, fire licking again at the edges of his mind as he sleeps...But right now, something's made him bend down a few inches, press his mouth to Sam's and try to cover the taste of ash from his brother's lips with his own.

Sam groans, voice breaking before it escapes his throat, and Dean backs away, clumsy suddenly, and awkward, tears his eyes away from Sam's wide ones and beats it back to the ramshackle house. 

Sam stays out, and when Dean looks out through the kitchen window several minutes later, he's bent down to sift a palmful of newly purified earth through his fingers, thoughtful and small.

 

*

 

They hunt a lone werewolf on a true autumn night, watch the huge moon gleam at them from over the top of the gaunt branches of trees that had already shed their leaves. John draws the wolf's attention as Dean pumps it full of silver from behind a tree and Sam rages silently at his side, gun still cocked and ready. 

His hands shake when they slide over Dean's fingers to draw Dean's gun from his grasp, avoiding the hot metal of the barrel and placing them back in the Impala's trunk. 

When he reaches out to hand Dean the matches to burn the corpse, Dean curls his fingers in, evades the touch without a word.

That night, John celebrates at the bar, wants Dean to come with for a few beers. Sam raises his head from his homework in surprise when Dean begs off good-naturedly, says he's staying in for the night. The door clicks shut, and Dean's smile fades, his head bows. Sam clambers to his feet, then thinks twice, shifts indecisively once he's standing. A few seconds pass, and he makes up his mind, pads to where Dean's hunched over at the kitchen table. 

Dean doesn't look at him until Sam dips down, and pushes his mouth against his. Until Sam's nose is brushing his own, until Sam doesn't know what to do, and starts to draw back. Then Dean brings a hand up, hooks it soft against the curve of Sam's neck and holds him in place while his own eyes slide shut and his lips go slack and open.

 

*

 

That winter, the snow comes down again in blasting flurries, sweeping the highway with drifts in grey. The rain freezes in the clouds, the roar of thunder banished for this silent season, and the snow blankets the fire-blackened prairies with a purer white. 

Sam knots his fingers in Dean's shirt, sees his breath in the air as he pants, gasps in and out over and over again as Dean's fingers sink below his waistband, turns his head into the warm give of his pillow to stifle his noises as Dean's mouth follows his fingers a few minutes later.

Reciprocates to the medley of Dean's encouraging whispers, words burying themselves in Sam's chest, trailing along the cello-deep strains of arousal already layering into his muscle, into his blood and bone.

They're exhausted the next day, wrung out, and when they both collapse in the back seat of the Impala, their bodies slouch, slot together without conscious thought. The Impala's smooth as she always, ever is, and their breath goes deep and slow and in sync as she rolls out through the snow.


End file.
